Doctor Who/Harry Potter fan-fiction
Chapter One: The Incident Involving A Badly-Sighted Boy
A blue telephone box, of some good height, stood straight and erect in the dark alleyways of London. Traffic jams and shoutings of elderly men occurred quite consequently but, nevertheless, there stood the police box as if it had a mind of its own. A mystery it was to behold before viewers' own eyes, but so on and so forth there was a blue telephone box and—as subtle as it seemed—to much surprise, this particular box was a legendary artifice in the form of such a humane object. Many enemies of the box's owner would sacrifice their allies' lives in order to possess such an otherworldly object. Although witnesses tended to sneak a quick peek of the box, none seemed to fully investigate its contents. There was no reason to, anyway. Nobody would think that a blue telephone box in the middle of London would, supposedly, be deemed unusual.
It lurked in the shadows, the gloom creeping over the telephone box like gnarly limbs of black ivy. Standing still like a soldier about to enter the midst of the blood-splattered battlefield, the box seemed to have a shade of intrigue painted over it. Almost like its audience was a direct age group, the box didn't entertain—but it certainly did intimidate. When pedestrians of young age walked past, holding their mothers' hands as they walked down the path, the legendary box—what with its tallness and shadowy features—made the children cower away, pacing faster than usual as their little feet scampered ahead.
The cold hours of midnight zoomed past, the gallivanting and globetrotting food stalls making their way forward down the footpath. A cold winter breeze caught against perambulators as they drew hoods up around their faces, blocking away the blistering cold. Mumbling to themselves underneath sharp, heavy breathing, they scurried along quickly without a glance towards the dark alleyway of which the blue telephone box still stood without precaution or necessary hallucinating. Too dreary for anyone to even begin to comprehend what was going on, the midnight sky shimmered with stars glowing alight—ten, twenty, a thousandfold. Sprinkled and tossed across the sky, the stars were a small portion of the sun, it seemed. That blazing heat burning bright, the toss-and-turn of the moon as it reached over the horizon and hovered above all like a looming shadow… The mystery of it, the bare capabilities of which not many civilians reached. Still, the box stood proud and clear, so dear to the hearts of the owner.
The simplicity of a man having one heart defeated the purpose of intrigue—and frankly—what was a man's life without intrigue, or even, interest? The box's owner, regardless, had two hearts and both of them beat like normal hearts would. Such humanity had failed to reduce the customariness in the owner's life. Or lives. He wasn't quite sure how many lives he had had before this moment forwards; the space-time continuum had been a mess as of late and, candidly, the man didn't care for how many lives he owned or possessed or needed. He had his two hearts and that was the intrigue, as aforementioned, that drove him forward into the depths of the world.
Due to the course of some belated holidays, it seemed to be a necessity to feel as if the owner was lonely or had no companionship. Things had changed dramatically since then, eyes had widened to previous alters in reality and certain companions and civilians had arisen from the dead in the blink of a hazy eye. Usually, the owner had nobody to go to and, with open arms inviting warm and passionate embraces, he was left with just himself and that wasn't enough most of the time. Suddenly, the feeling of regret and ill societies' needs had come crushing down against his chest, gut and all body parts needed to sustain life. Blazing eyes and twinkling lights illuminated the night as a figure stepped out of the telephone box and sucked in the winter breeze, cool air rushing through his widened nostrils. This form (unfortunately, his tenth incarnation) was going to have to do for the rest of some years—it had so far gifted one companion and that was the woman he was stuck with tonight.
The delights of actually having someone to converse with, let alone having someone to just be with, sent a sizzling sensation through the owner's alien-resemblant body. Yes, it was the rambunctious decisiveness that had driven the man towards a human form but, in his real form, the owner of the blue telephone box had a lot to be discriminated against. All would come tumbling down, his social status and human rights and the like, if he fully exposed himself to the world unintentionally. He had been many things in his past life—lives, if you wanted to put it functionally—and a rightful fellow had never been one of them. His past nine incarnations (theoretically ten, but to bring up the past would be to bring up such torturous experiences) had been a differentiating series of journeying events that almost always led to the aftermath of a demolishing, destroying war. However, these delights of having a companion… oh, it was such a relaxing momentum that sent thrills and thralls up and down his spine.
As the figure had walked out of the shadows of the blue telephone box and into the scintillating glint from the source of the ash-grey moon, a whirring of electronic noises had come from the background of the inside contents of the box. Hurtling forwards and into the alleyway, the figure straightened out his suit, fixed his standing-out crimson red bowtie and—with no needed hesitation—walked forth into the night. Messy dark brown hair alight by the rays of moonshine coming from above, the man gulped hurriedly with his heavy breathing echoing into the silence of the night. That singular gesture, the breath that had come from the man's past destination, had cut through the silence like a knife slicing through the guts of an enemy. (Although the man had used many weapons, one of his favourites was a knife as well as his sonic screwdriver, something that he had never seemed to get rid of; it was almost like his favourite child, however controversial that particular topic was.)
"Ah, yes, yes, yes, I can just sense it all right now, can't you, Rose? The snow falling down upon the viciously beautiful London streets, exorcised children calm and pleasant for the night to let the parents enjoy a little midnight snack and chat or two…" The man gestured to Rose with a hand-flick, his hair sweaty as he panted, his hands on his knees, gasping for breathing whilst managing to get out the rest of his hurried words. "Leaping from destination to… destination… but how do we even continue? How do I even go forth with you on our journey of such elegance and passion? Well, the TARDIS definitely doesn't seem to agree with me, dare I say it."
As if in response to the madman's frivolous words, and in response to Rose's near interrupting of said madman's monologue, the 'TARDIS'—the blue telephone box from which the madman and, now, Rose had exited—made an aggressive combination of whirring sounds that weren't in any way in synchronisation or symmetrically adjusted to each other. Sudden scraping noises—of metal against metal, wood against wood—clashed throughout the still and subtle midnight silence. The sounds reverberated through the alleyways, bouncing against red bricks and cement and concrete. Sighing, the madman stumbled and staggered over to the TARDIS, his two hearts beating as fast as ever now, breathing slowly evening out. Once he got to the box, he slapped it once, twice, thrice quite antagonistically and with such force that it could've been heard throughout the streets. He stared down at the TARDIS, narrowing his eyebrows with wild determination and a fiery rage that burned within his ribcage.
"Stop that, you hear me? Stop that right now! Shut it!" The madman yelled at the artifice, the shadows creeping over his own figure, making out so that it seemed he was some evil overlord—no, he was anything but. Eons of despair and ruin incarnate he had been through and experienced; many foes the owner had unmasked, had battled and destroyed with either the flick of a wrist or so much necessary concentration etched onto his face like a puzzle. And, subsequently, screaming at a blue telephone box hadn't been on the top of his priority list but neither had the malfunctioning of the TARDIS. It cut a deep wound through his hearts to comprehend that—for now—the TARDIS didn't seem to be operating as it usually did. So much for the usual heroic gestures.
Usually, oneself would expect a companion such as Rose to be startled and confused as to why a man would be screaming at a box, but Rose was—unfortunately whilst also fortunately—prepared for this. The gesture of heroicness that had been nothing but a flourished movement from the man, it was fading away. Rose took a glance at the man beside her, who was continuously slapping his hand against the TARDIS in a failed attempt for it to "stop that! Shut it! C'mon you stupid big blue buffoon!" and wondered, vaguely, how in the world she had ended up in this whirlwind of events. Flying through space and time in a wooden box that was, magically, bigger on the inside… travelling between the time-gaps of different dimensions…it was all so mysterious and yet so obvious to why she was here; as a companion, she needed to look out for the Doctor—which was the name the madman went by, crazily enough—because she seemed to be the only one to do such an absurdly strange thing.
"Doctor, I don't believe that would help the matter quite as much as waiting patiently," Rose emphasised her words, suggesting that priorities of her own creation would be much more sufficient than the Doctor's—that is, of yelling at the box to shut its mouth. She trudged her way through leg cramps over to the Doctor, dragging him away from the TARDIS who seemed to be mumbling swears and curses underneath his breath. Undoubtedly they were curses from the Gallifrey gods and rulers; Rose had picked up on this quite often as a matter of fact. All the unusual and peculiar moments in her life tended to crash into one singular period once she was venturing into unknown surroundings with the two-hearted space-and-time-travelling alien commonly known as the infamous Doctor.
"Oh yesyesyes, blimey, she's quite up and going if I do say so myself, oh but I can see here Rose… can you see it? The stars aligning for this night, you know what this night is, I know it, you know it, I've told you and so you know. Tonight will be one of the nights where we travel into the skies with great intentions. Oh yes, enemies will be among us but with tilted chins shall we march forth into their lairs. Yes. Yesyesyes, this is the plan and the plan for only tonight it may be. Or however long this event may last. The boy with the jagged scar, the Death Curse and all. Ah, the Dark Lord, He Who Must Not Be Named, and the events that preceded thus far," the Doctor spoke, his words mushing together in an combination of mismatched sentences that didn't quite make sense, or so Rose Tyler's comprehension of his words had attempted to be achieved. A frivolous mist travelled through the night, spiralling around the companion and the Doctor, both of them staring mystically as the dreary atmosphere swirled around with their gracefulness… if that was what you could call the Doctor's frantic complaining.
The TARDIS stayed in the shadows, a temporary homeland for its legendary aura and stillness of movement. The inability for the TARDIS to move—some immobile fragmentation of the box's mind—caused the Doctor to continuously fret that something, anything, could go dangerously wrong. It could be such an easy feat for the Time Lord to stumble into trouble face-first with no intentions of ever doing so. In the air was a dazzling sensation of moonlight, the moon shining illumination down upon the two nomads whom travelled through the continuum as if they were walking past the threshold of an ordinarily wooden door.
Said adventures of the two nomads had them travelling here and afar, to places that such recognition would not be needed for one reason only—some of the places they travelled to have not ever been recognised. Alternate dimensions, through nebulae, the darkest of the continuums… An endless list of destinations and locations tainted what was left of their hearts' innocence, what remained of the lightness that beat a steady drum-like pattern against their rhythmic ribcages. The TARDIS had allowed the two of them to travel to places with no hesitation whatsoever, to seek out the problems and troubles of societies and balance out the truth—unbeknownst to the ones who already know the truth.
The quite particular thing with the Doctor was, however, that the truth always lay in such places where lies were also found. For example, the name of the Doctor—he had considered it not much of a vital importance to be known to the world but, of course, it was something to him. A juxtaposed situation was unified within that bared truth, which exposed a reality of forgiveness and miscommunication. The name of he, the Doctor, came at a cost of lies upon lies—"oh, yes, my name is the Doctor!" "But Doctor who?" "Precisely." Who. That was the key word in all of these little scenarios and bits of reality that made up the Time Lord. He didn't know exactly who he was and, if he did, he thought it best to not share the word around with anyone should they tell their friends, should their friends tell the rest of the human existence. Hurtling through the time and space continuum in a time machine disguised as a 1963 blue telephone-police box… it didn't hurt but it was part of the reason that anonymity existed in the Doctor's life. Also part of the reason that he had quite a lot of followers that didn't exactly know who he was, which came back to his name. Few knew his name, many wanted to know his name—but not a lot of people needed to know his name. Since the saying goes you don't need to know someone's name to know their story, but the Doctor considered this bollocks. The second thing was, quite simply and naturally, he didn't really want anyone knowing his story for the time being or for the whole time in the galaxies. The price could be paid, and then—without any needed attention—he could be blasted off to some jail or prison in Gallifrey (I'd laugh at that idea if I weren't so out of breath, the Doctor thought) where his sonic screwdriver was completely done for (at this, the Doctor did certainly exhale a small chuckle but to the extent that he had to catch his breath back again)! The renegade Time Lord had passed through so many differentiating alternative dimensions and time-locked barriers within the faces of the world, and yet, he didn't quite know the reason why humans tended to be so stupid and betray the ones whom they ultimately shared a bonding promise with. It was this particular second thing that was why he kept with Rose Tyler; she was normal, she was fierce, she was commanding—the three human characteristics that he had the idiotic but simple tendency to stick with, truth be had it.
"Doctor, it's best if we don't muck around. The Daleks should be around the corner any moment now, and what if we get into trouble with one of them while getting the magic boy?" Rose Tyler questioned her superior, glancing at him as if his company was the only thing that allowed her to feel as if she wasn't quite alone. All her life she had been living with her mother and the majority of her past days had been with her somewhat strange person of a partner… now was the only time when she felt the most included, what with her adventures with the alien Doctor. His intentions had always come as a gift, though, guaranteed to be something of a mystery best kept under a shadowy veil… so that nobody can touch the precious entity.
"Ah, the Daleks are slow compared to us but their wild thoughts and destructive intentions… Blimey, we'd better get a move on then and with the hurry of it, wouldn't you say? Of course, Rose, just follow me. Take my arm and follow me!" The Doctor exclaimed, holding out a dustily clothed arm, suit sticking to his skin—he'd either been pacing back and forth too much or the suit was too tight for him. Most likely the latter; the latter tended to stand out more than the former, if the Doctor "did say so himself." Cracking his neck, he twisted his back in a range of different stretching activities that didn't invite very many people for the appealing portion; in this circumstance, Rose Tyler didn't find it that interesting and, frankly, intriguing to watch the Doctor perform his yoga exercises twice a day. She couldn't even comprehend why he did it, so she asked.
"What's with the yoga exercises, Doctor?" she asked ever so simply rather than sticking to the Doctor's rambling sensations that dragged out into a lengthy explanation of events tossing and turning a-tumble in the dusts of time. She glanced over to him, the man who had said they were to run away from Daleks… but that same man was also doing yoga just for the fun of it, seemed to be the reason.
"A Time Lord's aptitude of exertion and anthropological classifications doesn't despoil a usual humanoid's intentions and so—with the likely prospect of me, yes me, not dying under the hand of a mortal-coil-bound enemy—I find that activities that lay with an open hand to the physical side of emotional treatment… Well, it helps the intended Time Lord, that one being myself, and so"—he said this as a popping crack sounded through the night, due to the cause of his neck twisting in a brutal way; Rose winced at the sight—"yoga seems to be the only equitable option for myself."
"…why did I even ask?" Rose sighed, glancing around and hearing the slight reverberation of sounds echo against the streets of London, hitting against brick walls and quite violently justifying a reason for it—enemies were near, which brought along the sense of unneeded danger. "Doctor," hissed Rose, her relaxed smile distorting itself and changing into a stressed sneer that directed itself towards the Doctor, who was continuously doing those repetitive exercises. Rose had the very high chance, now—and never before—of slapping the man silly until he came to the conclusion that, yes, they very much should get going in case they died of that inexorable taste of danger.
"Rose," the Doctor hissed back, his eyes blazing with a fieriness that glinted within the light of the moon, shadows playing across his face in a violent snapping motion. The limbs of gnarly trees grew and stretched around the two, causing them to hide under a veil of gloom, the darkness closing in on them like a silent whisper of events that hinted at possible freedom of the arms of danger. Danger, danger, danger. That word, that single word, echoed around them like a song of the sinners, a hymn for the haunted, a melody for the malicious and it all came down on them like a daunting avalanche of hurt feelings.
"Daleks, and a lot of them," Rose replied. Her eyes shimmered in the moonlight, widening as if door hinges had narrowed so close to each other. She looked forth to the streets of London around them, seeing a trio of the exterminating robots heading forwards, not saying a word but travelling at their usual pace. "I suppose you know how to get past them? We need to head left, they're going left. We could go in the TARDIS and travel to the Potter boy's house but, no, it's malfunctioning. We could go backwards, but oh, no, the alleyway is blocked off by a brick wall—"
"—a brick wall, aye—"
"—what…Doctor, no—" Once she came to the realisation, it was only a matter of time until the Doctor's unreasonable idea came into action and, once that happened, the only thing that would cause much damage was the arrival of three Daleks who wanted them obliterated from this planet… and possibly a few other thousands.
"—Rose, it's our only choice—" He said with a devious grin before his trustworthy companion cut him off almost instantly.
"—Doctor, we are not going to—"
"—Rose, we're going to have to—"
"—jump the brick wall," they said simultaneously, announcing the most tragic and disastrous idea that had ever formed in the Doctor's mind. Rose exhaled a silent sigh, shaking her head tremendously with such great effort. The Doctor, meanwhile, was pacing forth to the wall, putting hands against it and palms and legs, trying to figure out the best way to jump it like the fence of a loathed neighbour's.
Rose looked back to the opening of the alleyway, the TARDIS hiding in the shadows, and found the flashing and illuminative lights of the Daleks arriving quicker than usual; they were all gaining speed on them. With heavy breathing taking place at the momentum that dug inside her gut like a cave-in, Rose turned to look at the Doctor who… who had vanished from sight.
He wasn't joking around, was he, when he said that he was going to jump that brick wall? Rose asked herself in a wisp of a breath, sighing once more in an attempt to rid the anxiety away. She would never understand the Doctor's individualism or unified behaviour; he had the hearts of a child, acting so foolishly and with no regrets or doubts. Most often it was up to her standards that the Doctor named himself as the impressionist but, no, it came at a cost and such a cost to pay. Loathing him at that moment, she sprinted for the brick wall that divided the alleyway with forced effort, placing both palms against the top and springing her lanky legs over. Yes, she was short but that didn't exactly mean that her physical side had altered so much to adjust to her height.
Once she had made it over the red brick wall, a clueless attempt to the compared Time Lord's exertion, Rose had realised that the sound of the Daleks approaching had, thankfully, dispersed into the winter winds. She was grateful that she had someone with her, someone to make this darkness absolute brighten up a little bit. The Doctor's company was as graceful as he was charming, if a little insulting… However, no matter what, Rose Tyler's lack of individualism melted into his appearance of it. They looked at each other for a split second before the Time Lord spoke from the dead silence.
"What did I tell you, huh? It's got to be something in my alien blood that tells me every scenario I am in with you… Well it's fixed automatically when I think of something so creative and—" The Doctor was cut off. Rose had started talking, which the Doctor was fascinated by but didn't take much notice to it; instead, he just listened to her mentioning of him.
"You'd better shut that trap of yours, princess, it's the only way that we can actually have something to do and—frankly—I don't want the magic boy left alone in the dark. Now, come along." She jogged to the other end of the alleyway, checking for any enemies only to find the stillness of the Britishness that boiled in her hereditary blood. Rose didn't mind that the Doctor was some distance from her; let him catch up, let him exhale sighs of exhaustion as they both trampled over their own feet, wandering through the depths of the city.
As the Doctor caught up to her side, the apartment complexes seemed to grow fainter and duller, dimmer, than they had been before. It almost seemed as if they were being put out completely, the darkness closing in on them, wings of caressing gloom holding them in an open embrace. All cheer and delight melted away through the drains of false reality, London becoming a small pinprick of fading light that kept to itself and only itself. Any movement was never detected, any individual was never spotted—and the range of victims supplied for the Daleks could only be increasing by the moment as the darkness allowed more enemies to come into play.
And, once the enemies came out to play… well, the Doctor's satisfactory needs just had to be filled to the brim with a resonating encouragement of deceit and inconsequentiality.